It's Just SAD
by Just-a-Kagehina-lover
Summary: Just a little tragedy I pooped out. It's not crap though, please read. Warnings inside, lotsa dark stuff; I've always wanted to write a tragedy (as you'll see me repeat inside). Major and minor character deaths (tragedy, duh) OOC, but Dean and Cas both have complimentary mental illnesses stemming from childhood traumas. It's good stuff.


_This just popped in my head one day (or night, that happens sometimes) and it's kinda been a long time coming I guess, since I've always wanted to write a tragedy. So here it is!_

 **Warnings:** _non-con, rape-ish, abuse, kidnapping, Stockholm, mental disorders, major and minor character deaths (it_ is _a tragedy after all)_

 **Disclaimer:** _Don't own nothin' 'cept the idea from my dear old noodle._

It's Just S.A.D.

Warm sunlight filtered through the vibrant leaves, bright green in the midst of a blossoming spring. The streets were as crowded as they get in the small town of Lawrence, Kansas, its population eager to be out in the sunshine and fresh spring breeze. Tiny feet clapped softly as Dean walked with a bounce in his step, trying to match the graceful stride of his mother's heels.

"Where are we going, Mommy?"

The golden sun gleamed in shimmering waves as Mary Winchester turned her delicate features toward her oldest son.

"To the park, baby."

"Why can't I play with Sammy in the backyard like always?"

"Because Daddy's having an important meeting with his secretary right now, and we need to be away from the house so we don't hear his top secret plans."

Dean nodded excitedly, happy in his boyish way at the notion of his father doing important work, even if his curiosity itched at the back of his mind. With an extra skip in his step, he pulled impatiently on his mother's cold hand, wonderfully oblivious to the dullness of her pretty blue eyes and the downward twitch of the smile she plastered on as a last ditch effort at holding herself together at the frayed and splitting seams.

The bustling masses of dog walkers, joggers, and parents keeping a relaxed eye on their respective children, all tangled in the monkey bars and spider webs and slides, congregated at Lawrence's only park and field on a fine Saturday afternoon. The smell of barbecues and the sounds of picnics, accompanied by the symphony of buzzing insects, filled the grassy green area. Dean's chubby fingers slipped out of his mother's own slender ones, ignorant of how they dropped lifelessly at her side without his warming touch to give them a reason to even put up appearances. With grabby, impatient six year old hands, Dean pulled his baby brother 'Sammy' from the cold, barren and unbeknownst to him, several months untouched lap of his mother.

The young Winchesters added their own laughs and cries and screams of delight to the cacophony of loud noise grating through Mary's bleeding ears and pounding on her permanent migraine.

Hours passed, and the bustle of life trickled out of the park in a twisted imitation of the spark of life draining from the broken-hearted mother's numb body.

Chubby warm hands encircled her own corpse-like ones again, and her two year old weighed heavily in the carrier upon her aching back, bending her spine with the age transforming her withering body so rapidly.

The pungent stench of adultery greeted the trio as they ambled up the steps and through the faded yellow door to their quaint two story, yet only Mary noticed.

Pulling the covers up to just beneath the vulnerable necks of her beloved, unwanted children with unfeeling fingers, Mary kissed each of their young foreheads, working purely on muscle memory.

She did not return to her room, she did not want or need to see the evidence of John's infidelity. Not that she should've cared as much as she did about this god forsaken arranged marriage.

A clatter in the kitchen woke Dean from his light sleep, and he slid quietly out of bed so as not to wake his Sammy, secretly glad to have a reason to escape the evil monsters that lurk behind closed lids framed with feminine lashes.

Soft feet treaded the stairs with growing trepidation, fear seeping tangibly through his soft permeable skin, clamping down on his rapidly beating heart with a vice grip. Short blonde hairs blew around his face in wisps, dancing on the whistling breeze that trickled in like a slow, soft song from the opened window by the front door.

A clatter that sounded like the familiar clang of the cutlery drawer opening wide, the way his mommy always swings it when she dances around the kitchen, humming while she cooks and chops and scrapes, resounded loud in his ears and drew his legs toward the kitchen like a puppet on strings.

Golden hair bounced and gleamed in the glowing moonlight, reflecting off the chrome refrigerator and matching knife in those familiar delicate fingers.

Dean's heart pounded so loudly in his ears, cold fear dipping his body in a bath of ice, as he knew in his heart and mind that his mommy was not preparing a midnight snack.

As she twirled around in her beautiful billowing skirt, ice blue eyes-turned cold, hard black landed upon her beautiful son. She froze. With a memory of a loving smile, she knelt down and beckoned her darling boy closer. He came. Running the tip of the knife down the delicate frozen cheeks that clung to their baby fat, she cooed softly, a remnant of her forced motherly love.

"My pretty, pretty, baby boy. I'll never leave you. Promise."

Dean watched with dimming fear as Mary stood, reaching for the cutlery drawer once again. Relief flooded through his small body, so forcefully he saw white spots dancing in his vision. She was going to put the knife down. She was going to stay. She loved him.

Mary closed the knife drawer with the edge of the blade.

Looking down on her shaking son, she whispered softly before dragging the sharp blade across her pale throat, "Promise."

Blood splattered in warm freckles upon his small face. Wide green eyes rolled back in the terrified little head as his warm body collapsed beside her already cold one.

–

"Hello, Dean."

Dean wiped the crust off of his dry, itchy eyes with his chubby fisted hands. His throat felt like he'd eaten ten boxes of saltine crackers, and he'd gladly drink salt water if it meant he'd get some liquid relief. An incessant beeping noise chirped annoyingly in his ear, bouncing around in his head as if it were jumping on the mattress of his growing headache. The fluorescent lights beamed bright orange behind his eyelids, only to nearly blind him with pure white when the greens of his irises were slowly revealed.

As the light-induced nausea settled in his rolling stomach and the rest of his foggy senses cleared, the surrounding area flooded in through his eyes, forcing his brain to awaken fully and try to make sense of everything around him.

A wiry old man with a cruel glint in his pale eyes sat directly at the foot of his bed—or rather, a strange, stiff and uncomfortable white bed with thin sheets that smelled like death and alcohol—analyzing and observing him quietly and unnervingly.

"I'm Dr. Alastair, and we'll be seeing a lot of each other very soon." The old man said with a wispy, nasally, incredibly _annoying_ voice that sent unwanted chills up Dean's spine. He never wanted to see this man again.

With a notepad and ballpoint fountain pen that Dean only just noticed, the doctor sat forward and tapped the short white beard beneath his chin.

"Do you know where you are? How you got here?"

Dean took the opportunity to take in the rest of his surroundings, noticing the door in the left hand corner of the room and the two large, one-panel windows, one beside the door facing a white hallway, bustling with the buzz of many voices and the occasional adult wearing either blue or green or white. The other window faced the outside world moving without pause or halt or even knowledge of the tragedy that hung thickly in the air around the building.

"A hospital?" Dean coughed, embarrassed and slightly scared at the raspy whisper that escaped his small mouth.

He looked down at the thin blue fabric wrapped around his body, and the white wristband that cut into his slender wrist. The tube connected to a tiny needle taped to his forearm that appeared to be injecting some sort of clear liquid from a plastic bag into his arm. He tried to read the small black print on the plastic bag, slightly distorted from the wrinkles, but then he remembered he couldn't read yet. He was still stuck on repeating the ABC song with his kindergarten class.

"Yes. You're in a hospital, very good. Do you remember why you're here?"

Shivers crawled under his goosebump-covered skin at the intruding voice. He'd almost forgotten about the creepy man.

Dean responded with a slow cautious shake of his head. No, he could not remember. No, he did not _want_ to remember. The small voice inside his head warned him against picking at the bloody scab congealed over his memories. He knew he would not like what he saw, so he listened to that small voice and refrained.

"I see. Do you want to know what happened, why you're here?"

Another slow shake.

"Interesting." The frantic scratching of the pen grated loudly like nails on a chalkboard in Dean's fragile ears. He simply grimaced and tried to focus on something else.

Sammy. Dean wanted Sammy to be with him. Where was Sammy. _Sammy's at home, where I left him. Safe and sound and asleep._

"Well, I think that's about all you'll give me for today. I'll see you soon, Dean."

The creepy old man stood from his chair, gathering his bag and coat. Relief flooded Dean like the clear liquid in his bloodstream. He'll finally be gone. Gone. He's leaving. She's leaving. She's gone. Gone. Gone.

"NO!" A hoarse scream ripped from his sore throat, clawing its way from the pit of his stomach, "NO NO NO!"

The doorknob turned.

"NO!" He reached out.

The door creaked open, just a crack.

"NO!" Tears overflowed and rained passed the long fluttering lashes. Dean shook violently and lunged forward. White spots danced at the corners of his vision and it was all too much like the last time. He never noticed the pain searing up his numb arm, torn open by the forgotten needle as it was ripped from his skin. He only saw blood. And blonde. And gone.

The door closed and the old man stood still, allowing Dean to wrap himself around his long, thin legs, muttering about promises through blubbering tears. Blood pooled on the floor, and the white spots took over. Green orbs rolled back; arms loosened; he fell. A pen clicked. This time the scratching didn't bother Dean.

"Interesting."

–

Dean woke up in a different room, on a different bed—not different, _his_. Sammy wasn't in bed, where he left him. Sammy was downstairs, playing with their trucks. The clawing of the tires on the hardwood floors reached his ears and soothed him, urging him to go back to sleep because everything's fine.

Everything was not fine. She's gone. Sammy's not here. He left. She left.

Dean raised his arms, twisting and rolling and kicking violently but he was too twisted in the blankets to move very far. His wrists were heavy; he couldn't lift them. Sharp pain erupted in his lower left arm, biting enough that he stopped thrashing, opting to lay back and sob. He cried. The pain got worse. He screamed. He felt the wetness he'd come to associate with blood steadily dripping down his arm. He looked up and to the left as the white spots danced again. They sure liked dancing. The familiar plastic bag of clear liquid hung from a silver pole, a tube running from it, trailing down to the bloody needle in his arm. Red seeped through the long white bandages already wrapped around the area.

The door opened as the spots closed in, jumping to the height of their performance. A flash of dark red hair floated through the center of his vision before the white spots took over again. He hated that color.

–

"Hey, buddy. That's it, c'mon."

Dean blinked his long lashes languidly.

"Almost there…there you go!"

Grass green met hazel. Not familiar hazel. Not Sammy.

"Hey there!" A cheerful, yet soft and comforting voice called to him sweetly. He looked at the gentle hazel and waited for the rest of the room to come to focus.

He was still in his room, in his bed. There was a kind looking lady in a familiar wooden chair from his kitchen sitting next to his bed. He didn't like the kitchen. Almost as much as he didn't like her hair.

"My name is Charlie, what's yours?"

She sounded sincere, but the tickling memory in the back of his mind reminded him that she already knew the answer. Considering she had shouted it before he succumbed to the white dance.

"Dean," he croaked anyway. She looked kind, and Mommy always said to be polite to strangers.

"Well Dean, I know you've been through a lot recently, but I also know you're one of the toughest boys I've ever seen."

The hazel grew softer, gentler, almost flowing and billowing out as if he could fall into her eyes and let them wrap around him safely like a warm, comforting embrace; soft as a kitten, warm as a mother. Except for his mother. She was always cold.

When he tried to sit up, he found he could do so easily; he was no longer twisted in the blankets with heavy, bloody wrists that couldn't move an inch. Dean sighed in relief, and sat up fully, facing Ms. Charlie.

"How are you feeling, Dean?"

Instead of a reply, he found himself crawling forward into her lap, curling into a ball with his head on her chest. Warm arms encircled him immediately, rocking him slightly, like he wished his mother had done. She never did. She never would.

Cooing softly, Charlie whispered endearments into his small ear, and he clung tighter.

This time, when he fell into the dark oblivion, he didn't need the white spots to take him there.

–

A warm body snuggled in next to his; a small body, smaller than his own. Dean wrapped his arms tightly around the slender frame, bringing his Sammy closer.

Sammy let out a soft sigh, scooching even closer, as if trying to melt into his big brother. Dean gladly accepted it, and melted right back.

When the soft rays of the sun fell on his eyelashes the next morning, they twitched and fluttered, attempting to shoo the sun away. Dean reluctantly realized it was a futile battle, and stretched out his arms. His right one stung with pins and needles from being under his Sammy all night long. Sammy. Sammy's gone.

Shooting out of the covers, Dean was in tears before he reached the door handle. White spots gathered at the corners of his eyes, gathering their partners and taking their positions in preparation of the intricate dance Dean knew by heart, as he raced to the top of the stairs. Flinging himself down, unmindful of tripping and slipping a few times on the pale blue carpeting, Dean scrambled to the living room, nearly hyperventilating.

Dean was in complete hysterics by the time he saw the shock of brown duck fluff hair adorning his precious Sammy's head. He barely registered the red hair belonging to Charlie as he shot towards his brother, fighting against the white spots as they sped toward the finale. He didn't want to sleep. Not now. He wanted Sammy. Sammy Sammy Sammy.

Small feet tripped on the red firetruck rolling along the hardwood floor of the living room. Dean collapsed to the floor as two wide pairs of completely different hazel eyes traced the movement. Hands reached for him, but he registered nothing but the white spots, dancing to a completion, the imagined symphony practically cackling its final piece in his ears. The white bled to black, but he had found Sammy, so it was okay.

–

"He has severe Separation Anxiety Disorder, Mr. Winchester. It's not easily curable, but it's definitely not impossible. Ms. Bradbury and I will work with him, but in order for it to truly work, we'll need to take him to a facility, so he won't be distracted and you won't be hindered."

The nasally voice agitated Dean's nerves, and he clung tighter to 's leg. He didn't like that creepy doctor.

"Whatever," John grumbled, took a sip from the whisky bottle in his hand. He always had that bottle in his hand; it must be magic, since it never seemed to run out.

"Take 'im away, throw 'im away, I don't give two fucks. Hell, take 'em both! I'm sick of 'em anyway. Never wanted the brats."

Dean clung tighter with every word, shaking violently from the hate rolling off his father's tongue. John had had a lot more secret meetings with his secretary since Mary left. They weren't top secret, and they sure as hell weren't meetings either.

Charlie fought tears at the harsh words aimed at these poor beautiful children. She had seen what kind of a 'father' John had been the past few weeks she had been at the house, helping Dean's external wounds recover and getting him back to full health. With determination, she steeled her gaze and squared her shoulders.

"I'm sure as hell glad you said that, because I'm going to go upstairs, pack their bags, and take them down to social services where I will file to be their permanent and only guardian. And then I will come back, and you will sign the custody release papers, and you will never see, hear, speak of, or even _think_ about these precious boys again. You hear me?" Dean clung tighter, but the shaking stopped. He liked the defensive growl in her voice, especially when aimed at John Winchester.

"Now you and Dr. Alastair will finish up here, you'll sign some more papers, and you will keep your ugly mouth shut. Am I clear?"

John glared angrily, but Charlie didn't wait for a reply. Swooping Sam into her arms and grabbing Dean's hand, she led the boys upstairs to pick out their favorite toys while she packed all of their belongings into one large suitcase.

Dean watched from the back windshield, through the gritty black lines that stretched across the glass, as they drove further and further away from his quaint yellow house. This time he was leaving. This time felt better, although his queasy, rolling stomach would disagree. Sammy was with him. He liked Ms. Charlie. He liked her. He liked her he liked her he liked her a lot. She wouldn't leave. She was taking him with her. She wouldn't leave him.

–

"This is where you'll be staying, Dean."

White. He hated that color too.

This white room was different than the last. There were no windows, and the door blended in with the wall; it had no handles or knobs. The only break in the bleak white pattern was the small silver flapping door, which he couldn't open either, seeing as it only pushed into the room and there was not even the tiniest opening for his small chubby fingers to lift it.

Dr. Alastair stood, smiling cruelly, in the only opening, effectively blocking him from the doorway.

Charlie wasn't here. Charlie left him. She promised. She promised, but she left him. Sammy was gone too. Sammy Sammy Sammy. His Sammy was gone. But Sammy couldn't choose where he went, he was only three. Dean was seven, which was way older than Sammy, and Dean was still too young to choose where he stayed and where he went. And who he went with. Now everyone was gone. The creepy doctor would be gone too, soon enough.

"You'll get three square meals a day, there's a toilet over there," he pointed, as if the porcelain bowl in the corner was a luxurious gift that Dean was lucky to have, "and you won't see anyone for a while." The doctor said these horrible things as if he was the bearer of good news, rather than sentencing a seven year old to a torture chamber.

And then he left.

"NO! NO NO NO!"

Dean's cries and screams and pounds on the hard walls and door went ignored. Dean cried himself into hysteria, scratching and pounding on the door until his nails and knuckles bled. The white spots didn't come. They refused to dance in the white room, and Dean cried harder. He screamed until he lost his voice, then continued to sob silently. He rubbed bloody fingers raw, until they cracked and bled more. Dean clutched at his short blonde hair, dyed red by his fingertips, and pounded his head on the door until the skin on his forehead broke, and the white room turned red. Everything was red. Nothing was red. Dean collapsed in front of the door, curled into a fetal position. The blackness finally came.

–

Dean awoke in the white room. He could not move an inch. His body was numb and restrained. He could not lift his head to observe.

What Dean didn't know until much later, was that he was currently in a straight jacket. His wounds were bandaged and his fingers and legs were bubble wrapped, to prevent further self-inflicted damage. He was strapped to the bed with leather strips crossing his small body, and cushioned handcuffs restraining his ankles and elbows. A leather strap stretched across the cushioned helmet on his head, preventing any movement. Countless needles were strapped and inserted into his body in various places, making his entire body feel like it was sinking to the bottom of a river. An oxygen mask was strapped to his face, and a tube fed nutrients to his stomach, trailing down his throat. He would've gagged, had a blast of nitrous oxide not knocked him out the moment the administer noticed he was awake again.

Dean fluttered in and out of consciousness, oblivious and unfeeling to the world. He did not think when he was awake; he was never awake long enough. He didn't want to think, however, and only made idle chit chat with the voice in his head, who warned him not to pick at the scab in his brain: the one over his memories. He left the scab alone.

Two months passed before Dean's drifting ceased. He woke up. He awoke to sounds of panic and shouting and screaming. Clashing and clanging and banging noises filtered in through his room. He took in a deep breath and choked around the tube in his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't cough or swallow. He could only choke and gag. Vomit poured out of his throat, and he only choked on the vile taste as well. The lights were fading, the white spots that he had come to miss gathered at the corners of his eyes. Not for the first time, a flash of red as a door burst open was the last thing he saw before the he let the comforting white spots take over.

–

"Dean! My poor Dean!"

Someone was crying— _sobbing_ —on his chest. His shirt was getting wet; it felt funny. Dean's long eyelashes fluttered open. He was getting used to waking up in strange places, not knowing what was going on around him or being able to make out his surroundings for a few minutes while he waited for the room to stop spinning and the blurriness to clear.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as familiar red hair came into view. _Charlie_ , the voice in his head reminded him.

Ms. Charlie looked up suddenly, and Dean noticed the red-rimmed hazel. The familiar, yet different hazel. Not Sammy.

"Dean! Oh my god, Dean!" She squeezed him uncomfortably tight, only letting go as he emitted a soft groan.

"Hey, baby, how are you? Do you want some water? Something to eat?"

Dean nodded, not really catching all of the frantically-spoken words that rushed out of the kind redhead's mouth.

Charlie grabbed a cup from the bedside table and a bowl of cold soup that sat on a tray beside it. Dean was glad she didn't have to leave, and wondered if she remembered her promise.

Dean ate the whole bowl of soup, not realizing how hungry he was, after guzzling the water like a man who'd been stuck in the desert. Or a man who'd eaten twenty packets of saltine crackers; that's what he felt like the last time he had tubes and needles stuck in him. He didn't like those.

"Oh god, I looked for you everywhere! Alastair fucking kidnapped you practically, and oh my god—two _months_!—I've been searching every town in the state oh my god you poor thing you must've been scared to death! Hell, _I_ was scared to death, but you—" she cut off her anxious rambling as she looked into Dean's beautiful green eyes.

Dean smiled softly as the only thought in his head was: _She didn't leave me_.

Charlie bent over him and kissed his head—the way his mommy used to—and cupped his face with gentle hands as she pulled away to look into his eyes.

"I'm sorry, baby boy. I'm so sorry."

Dean melted as she embraced him again, much less crushing this time.

–

Charlie had moved to San Diego, California with the boys, on the opposite coast of the nightmare Dean was forced through. She homeschooled Dean and Sam—though the youngest wanted to go to public school with all his heart, he loved his brother and grew more understanding as he grew older—and worked from home at a high-paying job, allowing them to live comfortably in their large two-story house.

Dean shared a bed with Sam until he was sixteen, when the small family began working on his anxiety. They eased him into separating with either of them for a few minutes at a time, until one of them could go to the grocery store without Dean having a panic attack.

By the time Dean was twenty, Charlie could leave the house for work, and Sam could attend the local high school; both could leave at the same time without worrying about Dean's safety.

Dean would pace the house like an anxious puppy, but he'd be calm enough to sit on the couch by the front door and read while he waited for them to come home.

The sound of the Impala Dean had fallen in love with when they stopped by a used car lot for Sam to pick something out, rumbled familiarly up the driveway. Working on 'his baby' in the garage also helped melt Dean's anxiety while his family was away.

Dropping the book and running to the garage, Dean didn't have time to be embarrassed by his eagerness as Sam opened the door.

"Sammy!" Dean pounced, practically tackling his younger—and already taller—sixteen year old brother, unaware of the heavy grocery bags lining Sam's arm and probably cutting off circulation.

Dean nuzzled into his brother like he did when he was especially anxious, as he had been today since Charlie didn't know when she'd be coming home and Sam was later than usual. Now it was obvious that his brother had just forgotten to tell him he was stopping for groceries on the way home from school.

Sam chuckled at his big brother; he could practically see the tail wagging behind Dean.

"Hey, Dean. How's your day been? Tell me all about it while we put the groceries away."

Sam was the perfect brother in every way. He loved Dean more than himself, and completely understood his brother's situation (Charlie had told him everything when he was ten; asking him to take care of Dean), yet never treated him as anything other than normal and cherished. Sam took care of Dean like no other would've been able to, and never thought of him as a burden, no matter how much Dean doubted that sometimes. He was extremely patient and had a heart of gold to match Charlie's.

Dean told his brother the ins and outs of his day, like every day, while the two put away the groceries and Dean began preparing supper.

When dinner—lasagna tonight—was put in the oven to cook, Sam sat at the small table in the kitchen, and beckoned Dean to join him.

"Dean, I got some really exciting news today at school."

Dean smiled brilliantly at his younger brother. Sam always got good news, his grades were beyond amazing and Dean couldn't have been more proud.

"I got a full ride scholarship offer to Stanford! It's guaranteed if I keep my grades up. In two more years, I'll be going to Stanford!"

A bucket of ice cold water poured over Dean's head, drenching him from head to toe until he stood shaking in his chair, gripping the edges of his seat with white knuckles. _He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving me. He's leaving—_

"HEY! Hey hey hey! C'mere," Sam stood quickly and gathered Dean into his arms, replacing him in the wooden chair and setting his brother on his lap, rocking him slowly. "Shh, shh. It's okay Dean. I'm right here, I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you."

Sam continued cooing and rocking until Dean stopped shaking and the color returned somewhat to his skin.

"There you go, see? I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere. You ready to hear the rest of the good news?"

Dean froze in fear before shaking his head violently. If _that_ was supposed to be good news, what's left? _Charlie_ leaving him too?!

"Hey! Hey, calm down." Sam placed a chaste kiss on dean's forehead, squeezing him tight, "You're coming with me, Dean."

"What?"

"Yeah, me and Charlie have been scouting around, and we found the perfect place in Palo Alto. We're gonna live there while I go to college and become a big shot lawyer so I can buy us a huge mansion!"

Dean chuckled softly at his brother's enthusiasm.

"Charlie too?"

With a sad sigh, Sam replied, "She has to stay here for work, Dean, but she's gonna come visit whenever she can, and we're gonna come back here for the holidays. Neither of us are leaving you, we just can't stay with you all the time. But we'll _always_ come back, Dean. Always."

Letting the news sink in, Dean slowly nodded, chanting in his head, _Nobody's leaving. Nobody's leaving. Nobody's leaving._

–

Two short years later found Charlie helping the Winchester boys move their belongings into their new two bed, one bath apartment. Their new place was only a fifteen minute drive to Stanford's campus.

"That's the last of it!" Charlie exclaimed, trying to put her usual pep into the statement and failing miserably. Her lip trembled as she clenched her fists and fought inevitable tears.

She broke, and flung herself onto Dean, clutching on tightly and burrowing her small, red head into his broad shoulder.

"Oh, I'm gonna miss you both so much!"

Dean squeezed her with just as much force and intention. He never wanted to let her go. She would leave if he let her go. _Charlie's not leaving. Charlie's not leaving._ With extreme reluctance, Dean released her so she could give Sam the same attention, although their hug was much shorter.

Charlie waved goodbye, blowing kisses as she hopped in her car with tears running freely down her face. Charlie left. Dean cried into Sam's taller, broader shoulders for the rest of the night while they sat watching their favorite movies and stuffing their puffy faces with popcorn.

–

Dean cooked and cleaned and generally kept himself busy throughout the day, from the moment he saw Sam off in his silver Volvo—an eighteenth birthday present that Sam, Charlie and Dean drove down to Palo Alto before the big move, taking an airplane back to San Diego, much to Dean's displeasure—to the moment it was dark enough outside to head to the nearest bar.

Sam had taken Dean to a bar in San Diego—using a fake credit card that Charlie made for him—for Dean's twenty-first birthday. In an attempt to get Dean laid, a drunken and incredibly _stupid_ , painful plan that was formed in Sam's inebriated mind. Dean went to a motel with an older man that night, a man who turned out to be _married_ , and nearly had sex. Dean got scared, and the man left, leaving Dean in a whimpering mess on the floor, sobbing into the carpet as he called Sam and begged him to come pick him up. Sam never got drunk again.

Dean however, found the noise of the bar to be relaxing, and the alcohol to be distracting enough to convince himself that Sam would come home every night.

Every night, Dean would drive his Impala to the same bar; every night he would walk in to find all eyes on him, and every night he would never meet a single pair. If he never looked, if he never spoke to them, he wouldn't have to watch them leave, he wouldn't be too attached to see them go.

As a beautiful man with femininely long lashes that brought men to their knees and girls into jealous fits, as a man with sinfully pouty pink lips and a perfectly straight nose, as a man with high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw dotted with tiny stubble, Dean attracted both men and women alike. As a man who wouldn't speak a word to anyone but the bartender, who wouldn't look at anyone with the most vibrant, emerald green eyes in the world, he made a reputation and a name for himself, although he was blissfully unaware.

Some thought he would talk to them if they were just his type, but nobody had ever seen him leave with someone on his arm. Some thought he was just obsessed with the bartender—which gave the men hope because the bartender, Benny, was most definitely _male_ —but he never spoke more than a few soft words in the rough, yet lilting voice of his.

He was alluring, to say the least, but what Dean didn't know, didn't bother him.

Dean liked the bartender. The bartender was nice: he had a nice southern Louisiana accent, only gentle words to speak, and the kindest blue eyes he'd ever seen. He didn't know the Cajun bartender's name, and the red headed, bearded bear of a bartender didn't know his either. Neither asked; neither told.

"The usual, brotha?"

"Yessir."

Dean could feel eyes on him as the bartender set the amber glass of Jack Daniel's on the polished wooden bar in front of him. Dean always felt eyes on him, but this particular gaze sent a shiver up his spine, while his intestines made slow work of twisting themselves into anxious knots. Dean took a sip.

The feeling didn't go away, however, like feelings usually did after three glasses of whiskey. Dean's guts were cramping and twisting into excruciating positions that had him almost doubled over on the barstool, so he ordered another glass.

The bartender gave him a concerned look and set the 'last' whiskey on the counter. Dean knew he had better make good use of this one, because the bartender meant it when he said 'no more.'

As he took the first sip, the liquid sliding easily down his abused, numb throat—he could barely even feel it, the whiskey seemed to have burned through all the nerve endings and pain receptors—a well-dressed figure gracefully lowered himself on the stool beside his. Dean set his glass down reluctantly; the knots gave a sharp twist, like a warning punch to his gut.

When the man turned, Dean could tell immediately that the unnerving gaze had belonged to him. Dean took a few calming breaths, preparing himself to ignore the uncanny stranger; he could see the bartender's protective and wary gaze from beside him.

The man slowly leaned toward Dean's left ear, as Dean shied away, and purred, "Dean Winchester, what a pleasure seeing you here."

Startled green eyes widened, tan skin paled, calloused hands grew clammy. Dean's breath hitched in his throat and he could've sworn his heart stopped beating. No one, _no one_ , knew his name here. Not a single person in the entire bar, including the bartender, knew his name. Warning bells screamed in his head, the familiar voice told him to _get the fuck out of there!_ The knots in his stomach twisted so tightly they ruptured, bending him over so fast his head slammed against the table as he clutched what was left of his intestines.

A warm hand massaged his back gently, soothing the tense, coiled muscles until they had no choice but to melt. He looked up with watery green eyes that found they could only focus on blue. Oceanic, crystalline, galaxy-of-stars, fucking _knowing_ blue. This stranger _knew_ him; more than just his name.

Plump, pale pink lips stretched into a comforting smile, a flash of some unknown emotion swirling through azure orbs.

"Sorry," his gravelly, impossibly deep voice rumbled, "I didn't mean to frighten you, kitten."

The pet name sent a cold shiver through him, and he found the voice in his head telling him to run becoming more and more sensible.

Dean sat up and finished off his whiskey, placed the glass on the counter as carefully as he could with his suddenly swimming vision, and turned on his stool to stand.

The room spun precariously, and the anxious twisting of his stomach rolled into nausea. There was no way in hell the whiskey was kicking in _just_ when he was about to escape. He wanted to call for the bartender, but he never found out his name. Strong arms looped themselves under his own, lifting him and spinning his suddenly pliant body to face the blue eyed not-stranger—or rather _stalker_ , since the man seemed to know him, whereas he had no fucking _clue_ who this man was—and he made the vital mistake of slumping _into_ the firm body, rather than away and to the floor, causing a ruckus and gaining the safe, kind bartender's notice.

–

Dean found himself in a scarily familiar and comforting predicament: restrained to an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. Blinking languidly, he stretched his sore muscles, yawning and wiggling slightly like a cat. Like a _kitten_. Blue eyes flashed through his mind, scaring off the cloud of familiar comfort as he forced himself to take stock of himself and his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was that he was naked. Completely naked, not a single thread on his bare body. The second thing he noticed were the expensive silk sheets beneath him, that made him feel guilty and ashamed when he couldn't help rubbing against them. The third thing he noticed was the room temperature: perfect. Exactly how he liked it, and warm enough to prevent the eruption of gooseflesh across his tan skin. He was perfectly comfortable, unfortunately. This was the most comfortable unfamiliar place he'd ever woken to, and his anxiety clawed the walls of his mind as he mentally admitted he wouldn't mind waking up like this more often. As sad and twisted as it was, he found more comfort in waking up with heavily chained wrists, restraining him to an unfamiliar bed than he probably should.

The fourth thing he noticed before the entire room registered in his mind's eye, was the stranger laying beside him, staring at him with uncannily blue eyes. Said 'stranger'—Dean didn't know what to think of him anymore, kidnapper?—was wearing last night's, or whenever the hell it was, tan trench coat, dark blue suit ensemble, complete with polished black loafers. He hadn't even bothered to take his shoes off.

Dean's green eyes stared right back at that unwavering blue, daring the man to do or say something. The man only smiled softly and adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, as if he were content to lay there and stare at Dean all day.

Growing uncomfortable, Dean broke eye contact and continued analyzing his surroundings. The room was painted red—he usually hated red, but this was not that kind of red, it was more pastel—and had a soft cream-colored trim. It was awkwardly cozy, for a kidnapper's place, but Dean supposed a kidnapper would want their prey to feel comfortable…right?Or maybe this man was a rare kind of kidnapper, and didn't enjoy torturing his captives with forebodingly dark, dingy walls or eerily stained carpeting. Maybe this man just had a cozy taste in interior design.

Looking around the fairly large room, Dean noticed three things at once: there were no windows, the enormous bed on which he was chained—with actual, hard-core chains with shackles and everything—took up most of the space in the room, and there were no dressers, or any furniture really, except for the bed and two small light fixtures on the wall. No dressers meant no clothes. No clothes made Dean assume he was going to be naked for quite some time. Maybe if he played nice he would be able to earn a shirt or two. A bat of the eyelashes wouldn't hurt either.

After the room was thoroughly internalized, Dean turned back to the man to find those blue eyes raking over his body slowly, taking their time even as the man obviously realized he was being watched. Dean tried and failed to suppress a shudder, sliding his legs—also chained, but given plenty of slack which allowed them to move—over one another in a futile attempt to hide himself from the intense gaze.

Blue met green, and Dean's breath stuttered at the blast of heat rolling in intense waves from those eyes. Alarm bells kicked up to a firm yell in his head.

"I've waited so long to see you like this. I've missed you all these years; you're absolutely _beautiful._ "

Almost everything about those words shouted _wrong!_ The alarms blasted up to incessant screaming, ricocheting around in his thick skull, but his stupid, _stupid_ body twitched at the compliment, drawing the man's eyes downwards as he licked his lips. Blue darkened to nearly black when he looked back into startled green eyes, and Dean cowered like a lamb before a ravenous lion.

"Beautiful."

Dean twitched again.

"Gorgeous."

Another, longer twitch.

"Delicious."

Dean buried his head in his hands, crying quietly, unable to take it anymore as his traitorous dick already stood at half-mast. Like the last and first time, the punch of arousal in his gut frightened him, leaving him shaking and whimpering, sobbing softly as wet tears soaked his palms.

"Shh, shh. It's okay, my love. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm right here, and I'll never leave."

The smooth tumble of the words over gravel rolled through his ears, penetrating his deepest defenses, no matter how hard he tried to keep the soothing voice out. This stupid, scary man. Dean didn't like him. Dean wanted to go home. Dean wanted Sammy. Dean didn't want the man to leave.

A strong, comforting arm snaked around his shaking form, holding his waist tightly as his thumb stroked and caressed his back and ribs. Dean melted. He didn't want to melt, but he did.

–

Dean woke from a short restless slumber, to find himself wrapped around the strange man. It was slightly more comforting to know there was a thick barrier of cloth between the two bodies.

As his long lashes fluttered open, green locked hazily onto sharp, focused blue.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean suddenly felt compelled to reply, to give a greeting in return, but he squashed the embarrassing urge—largely due to the fact he still had no clue what to call the man.

"Castiel. My name is Castiel."

Dean wondered vaguely if he'd spoken aloud, as a small giggle slipped out of his lips before he could catch it and lock it away in the deepest pit of his stomach. Don't laugh at the kidnapper's unusual name. Never laugh at the kidnapper's name. Dean was sure there was a rule about that somewhere.

To his surprise, Castiel chuckled softly and smiled, a dazzling smile that made Dean look a little closer and realize this man was maybe a little tiny bit attractive. Nope. Not at all. Dean was sure there was another rule about thinking your kidnapper is extremely sexy—not that Castiel was, obviously.

"It's a little weird, I know. I'm named after the Angel of Thursday."

Dean stared blankly, wondering if that was supposed to be significant to him somehow, or if he was expected to laugh at the irony of an angel kidnapping poor, innocent people and chaining them to silk sheets and comfortable mattresses.

Dean's stomach replied for him, grumbling loudly in the quiet space. Castiel chuckled again, that deep, throaty laugh, as if he were fully enjoying himself. He probably was.

"Would you like something to eat?"

Nodding slowly, Dean eyed his captor warily, remembering the last drink he had near the man.

"Okay, I'll just get something from the kitchen."

Green eyes widened in fear—not for the first time around Castiel—as the words left those pale pink lips. Castiel slid off if the large bed, wrinkling the sheets slightly. Dean's heart leapt to his throat. Castiel took two steps to the door. Tears flooded Dean's eyes. Castiel's hand touched the doorknob. Fear shook Dean's body violently, and he bit his lips hard enough to bleed. The knob turned. Dean whimpered, beginning to hyperventilate. The door creaked open. Dean broke.

A broken sob escaped his lips, and all that slipped out of his trembling mouth was a scared, whispered 'no' of defeat. Dean never saw the smirk stretched across that pale face, as Castiel turned back to him immediately, shutting the door securely and rushing to Dean's side. Dean tried to ignore the way he practically threw himself into Castiel's open embrace. Dean tried to ignore the warm feeling spreading throughout his body, centered at any place of contact as he wrapped himself as best as he could in his chained state around his captor. Dean tried to ignore the fact that his heart and breathing calmed down immediately at the comforting touch, leaving only his tears and tremors to subside.

After being rocked, with long steady fingers sifting through his hair, scratching and massaging his aching scalp, the trembles and shivers racking up his spine melted away, and the tears dried in their tracks along his blotchy cheeks. Dean refused to look up with his undoubtedly red rimmed, puffy eyes, so Castiel merely kissed his soft blonde hair and pulled away, lifting Dean's stubbled chin to meet his gaze.

"I'm sure we have a pantry or refrigerator in here somewhere; let me up and I'll go look. I'll be right here, you can watch me."

Dean's stomach rumbled at the mention of food, so he reluctantly released his vice-like grip on the tan coat—which he hadn't known he'd been holding so tightly—and allowed Castiel to rummage around.

Suddenly Dean realized that was stupid because there was no furniture in the room, but he looked at Castiel with curious suspicion and kept his mouth closed. The blue eyed man spread his hands flat along the wall adjacent to the door, rubbing them up and down in a specific, searching pattern, as if he expected to find a secret groove. Apparently he did, because only a moment later, Castiel's long fingers slit a long section of the wall right open, pulling until a white refrigerator appeared.

He searched the wall beside it in the same fashion until he got the same result, only this time a few rows of shelves stacked with non-perishable food and snacks appeared along the wall.

Dean wondered vaguely if there even _was_ a kitchen beyond this room; if there was _anything_ beyond that door—any reason for Castiel to leave.

–

Weeks. Days. _Months_. Dean didn't know how long he'd been chained to the silk-covered bed by an angel. The angel never left. Cas never left, and Dean felt himself slipping further and further. Into _what_ , he had no clue.

Dean wasn't allowed to think, he wasn't given the opportunity to when Castiel did everything with him; _for_ him. Dean was becoming completely, totally, unhealthily dependent on the man in the trench coat. And that scared him shitless. He wouldn't, _couldn't_ survive if Castiel were to leave him, but Cas had no reason to stay. Cas didn't need Dean like Dean needed Cas; if the brunette found something, _anything_ more interesting than the tan body on his bed, he would leave the room and never come back. Dean didn't want him to leave.

So Dean did everything he could to make him stay.

Three meals after Dean awoke in that red room, Castiel touched him; Dean let him. The pleasure-pain landed punch after punch on his trembling body, and Cas held him while he cried silently when it was over.

Five meals after Dean was put in those comforting, familiar shackles for the first time, Castiel washed his body in the shower. Dean kept a bruising grip on the man's well-defined biceps as Cas licked and sucked his neck and chest and back clean, all the while rubbing suds over the mounds of his ass, delving between the cheeks and circling his entrance, rubbing sparks of licking flames over his perineum. Dean stood still; Dean let Cas touch him, fan the flames that burned through his body and slowly melted the dripping wax of his sanity. Dean was slowly burning to ashes, but at least Cas wouldn't leave.

Ten meals of cereal and crackers after the first day, Castiel kissed Dean. Like all the other times, Dean let him. Soft lips melded against his, manipulating his plump appendages the way Cas wanted them; dominating him, claiming him.

Dean felt something different, something scarier. Dean felt _good_. The pleasure-pain was still tickling at his stomach, fluttering the sensitive abdominal muscles, but there was something _else_. Something Dean wanted _less_ than anything: _like_. Not love. He would never stoop that low; he wouldn't let himself. _Why?_ He could hardly remember why anymore, and the soft, slightly chapped lips pressing insistently, yet patiently and _adoringly_ , against his own gradually filled his ears with wax, plugging them so he could barely hear the alarm bells ringing anymore.

 _Why am I resisting again? Why am I not in love with this man? Who is he to me? I can't remember…_

After the eleventh meal post-premier was cleaned up and put away, Cas used tongue, and Dean couldn't remember _anything_ anymore.

Dean sat up in bed, comfortably seated between Castiel's very bare, very muscular legs, being fed his twenty-sixth bowl of cereal. Cas had discarded all but his navy blue boxer-briefs on the day (or night) of the seventeenth meal.

Cas lifted the spoon, dripping milk into the small plastic bowl, as Dean opened his mouth and waited patiently. He'd learned his lesson about attempting to eat on his own—even taking a bite by his own means was prohibited, he had to wait for Cas to bring the food to his mouth—during the ninth meal. Cas had thrown his bowl of cereal across the room and tried to leave. He hadn't made it to the door before Dean was straining against his restraints, sobbing and apologizing profusely.

As the blue eyed man placed the spoon on Dean's pink tongue, Dean wrapped his lips around the silver utensil, lapping up the milk and chewing on the fruit loops inside.

Cas set the bowl on the floor beside the bed, his toned abdomen and chest brushing and resting on Dean's broad back for a moment that ignited sparks, bursting into a small flame that licked its way through Dean's spine, settling beneath his lower abdomen like a fire wrapping around a bubbling cauldron until the insides boiled. Dean took a sharp breath through his nose, settling his rolling stomach before Cas slid back against him.

Warm, strong arms wrapped firmly around his torso, squeezing gently, as Cas kissed a trail of fire from his shoulder blade to his neck, nestling in the crook like he belonged there and nuzzling the junction of his shoulder and neck.

"How are you feeling, beautiful?"

Dean waited patiently for the shivers induced by that deep, gravelly rasping of a whisper before replying a soft 'fine.'

Cas kissed the side of his Adam's apple before shifting and taking the lobe of Dean's ear between his teeth.

"Can I try something new today, love?"

Dean nodded slowly, waiting with bated breath for the inevitable roaming pads of burning fingertips, fluttering across his skin. When nothing happened, a soft sigh escaped pink lips, as Dean released his breath, only to inhale sharply when those anticipated fingers tickled at his sides.

Soft giggles escaped Dean's throat without permission, drawn out and increasing as the skilled fingers danced across his ribs.

Cas chuckled deeply, full of mirth and happiness at the sound of Dean's mewls of laughter. The fingers stilled soon enough, and held more firmly to Dean's waist.

"Lay back for me, baby." Cas slid back, the cool air hitting Dean's abruptly exposed back, making him shiver.

Dean complied, as usual. Dean couldn't remember ever _not_ obeying Cas. Said brunette reappeared in front of Dean, sliding between the long legs as his hands parted them, exposing Dean more fully.

The blonde started at this, breath catching in his throat as his heart beat rapidly upon his ribcage, trying to break free. Gentle, firm hands rubbed soothingly up and down on his thighs as Cas cooed and shushed the whimpers he hadn't realized he'd been making. The soft strokes to his bare body and soothing noises calmed his haywire nerves, adding more wax to the large pile in his ears until Dean could no longer hear the warning bells at all. Were they even ringing anymore?

As Cas slid his body between Dean's, fitting together like two puzzle pieces, the angel reached over Dean's head, rummaging beneath a few pillows until he grunted in accomplishment and pulled back. Warmth spread through Dean, raising his nerves as his penis twitched against Cas' half-erect one when they touched and rubbed with Cas' movement.

With hands lifting under Dean's knees, Castiel moved the blonde's legs to rest beside Dean's torso, bent at the knee and exposing his puckered entrance. Dean's breath caught again, so suddenly he nearly choked with the force, as wet fingers stroked and circled his hole. Cas gave a soothing tug to Dean's less-than-erect member, causing it to twitch and perk up embarrassingly.

Dean flushed red, bringing out the frightened green of his beautiful eyes and the tan freckles on his face. Cas smiled brightly, licking his lips as his bright blue eyes darkened to a deep navy blue, almost black.

The tip of Cas' index finger breached the tight ring of muscles; Dean clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears began swimming behind the lids. His body froze and tensed, trying to eject the unwelcome intruder.

"Shh, hey. Look at me." Cas demanded softly. Dean obeyed, lashes fluttering until they revealed the glassy green. "I'm right here. I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to leave. I promise. Relax, Dean, it'll feel much better."

Cas held the stilled tip of his finger inside Dean, rubbing the backs of Dean's thighs comfortingly until the stubborn tenseness of the blonde's body melted away at his touch. Dean sighed and turned his head to the side, letting the tears roll down his red cheeks as he reluctantly eased into Cas' intrusive touch.

"Good boy." Cas bent down, placing a chaste kiss on Dean's temple.

Castiel continued to work his lubricated index finger inside of Dean's silky muscles until it was pumping smoothly, slowly, caressing Dean's insides. A second and third finger soon joined the first, until Dean was trembling, shaking with tears running freely as his pouted lips trembled, all the while rubbing wantonly on the silk sheets and involuntarily thrusting his hips into the large digits stretching his ass.

When Castiel pulled his slippery fingers from Dean's gaping hole, Dean whimpered, a choked sob escaping his closed throat.

Cas leaned over Dean, forearms resting beside the blonde head, and kissed him gently, reverently until Dean's pouty pink lips slowly kissed back, tentatively reaching out to Cas' pale ones. Cas lined his erection in front of Dean's fluttering entrance, rubbing the angry red head of his throbbing cock on the slick pucker. When had he taken off his boxers? Dean sobbed, throwing his arms across his face as if he could block out the inevitable.

Suddenly all touch was gone, leaving Dean's overheated body to bear the cool air around him.

Green eyes peeked through the long lashes, peering through an opening in his arms. Cas sat up, preparing to get off the bed.

Dean's arms flew apart, uncovering his panicked face as Cas began to speak in a sad lilt.

"I'm sorry. You obviously don't want this. You don't want any of this; I'll just go. You probably don't want to even see me."

Dean's glistening green eyes widened in horror, subconsciously launching himself onto Cas before the man could stand.

"NO! No! No no no." Dean sobbed, whimpering quietly as he nuzzled into Cas' neck, straddling his lap. Dean looked up through wet lashes. He could do this. He could give himself to Cas completely; it's not like he had anything else. There was nothing else. _Cas is everything._

Slowly, Dean pressed his tear-stained lips to Cas' dry ones, melting against him and stilling, waiting for Cas to use him however he pleased; to take control. He felt the smile stretch across the chapped lips pressed against his own, before he felt said lips move, giving Dean what he wanted.

Castiel kissed Dean, licking his lips and slipping his tongue inside the warm, pliant cavern as Dean opened immediately to the subtle command. The fire burned brighter, sending sparks to his groin as the kiss deepened and grew more passionate, more intense, until Dean was gasping into Cas' mouth as Cas thrust his tongue inside to the rhythm he moved Dean's hips to, pulling and rubbing Dean's thighs and ass and dick against him. Dean shuddered, his cock throbbed and jumped as it gyrated against Cas' larger, hotter member. Cas lifted Dean, grabbing the globes of his ass in each hand, spreading and groping, as he lay Dean back against the sheets.

Dean spread his legs slowly in invitation as Cas settled back between them, slotting against Dean immediately. He rubbed the head of his engorged dick against the slippery entrance before pushing in slowly, breaching the tight muscles that latched on and squeezed as Dean tensed at the intrusion. Cas rubbed his thighs, up to his hips and waist until Dean relaxed, tears slipping past his lashes as they concealed the slivers of glassy green.

"Shh. Baby, you're doing so good. So beautiful. That's it, love. Take it slowly."

Cas pressed deeper, sliding in until he bottomed out, balls resting against Dean's ass. Shivers and flames raced each other throughout Dean's veins, lighting his nerve endings ablaze. He looked up to Cas through the tears hanging stubbornly onto his long lashes. Sniffing, Dean whimpered, sitting still as he waited for whatever Castiel would do next. The angel smiled down at Dean, arching slightly and gyrating his hips into Dean, causing a soft moan to slip past the blonde's kiss-swollen lips.

Dean shuddered as the flames licked higher and higher, aiming to engulf his whole body, his whole being. Sparks flew to his dick from Cas' movement as his dick rubbed _something_ inside of him. Cas slid out slowly, until his head caught on the rim, before pushing back in slowly, rubbing every inch of Dean's silky insides on the way. Jerking suddenly as Cas' cock rubbed that _something_ again, Dean moaned wantonly, making Cas chuckle breathily.

"You like that, huh?"

Dean moaned in response as Cas rubbed his prostate again and again and _again_. Dean was rapidly falling apart, becoming a writhing, moaning mess beneath Castiel.

Cas pulled out suddenly, smiling at Dean's protesting whine, before he thrust his hips almost violently, snapping back inside and _pounding_ on that wonderful spot. Dean bit his lip to hold in the scream of pleasure as the fire raged to wild proportions, burning is entire body and soul from the inside. Pleasure rushed through his veins, flooding through the fire and to his waterlogged brain, shutting it down completely. He couldn't think, he couldn't move. He could barely breathe. Dean could only _feel_ , and what he felt was pure, white-hot pleasure that ate him alive.

Cas repeated the forceful movements, and this time Dean really did scream, unable to hold it back any longer. Like a floodgate bursting open, pleasured sounds poured from Dean's parted lips, as Cas rocked and rolled his hips against Dean's, thrusting into the tight heat and hitting Dean's prostate every other thrust. Dean writhed, mewling in pleasure as his back arched almost painfully, his head thrown back against the pillows. Castiel grabbed Dean's hips, pulling the blonde against him each time he thrust into Dean.

"That's it, baby. Just like that. God, you're so beautiful. So pretty, impaled on my cock while I thrust into your pretty body. _Fuck_." Cas pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he grunted, thrusting faster into Dean.

Dean couldn't do anything but writhe and mewl. Writhe and mewl like a cat. A _kitten_. Dean absently wondered if this was why Cas had called him that so long ago. Was it long ago? Dean couldn't remember anymore, and with Cas hitting his prostate on every thrust, he didn't care.

The fire burned brighter, something warm pooling in Dean's abdomen, as Cas snapped his hips even faster, leaving them both panting raggedly for breath.

Dean's mind was completely blank save for the incessant chanting of _Cas Cas Cas Cas_ that grew louder the closer he got to something; the tighter his intestines coiled together, this time out of pleasure instead of fear.

White spots danced at the edges of his eyes, exploding behind his closed lids with each thrust to his prostate. The spots closed in as the coils wound tighter and tighter like a spring, waiting to snap.

Cas leaned down, placing his warm lips beside Dean's ear, and whispered, "Come for me, Dean. Let go."

That gravelly voice was all Dean needed to leap off the edge of _something_ as the white spots took over. Pleasure like he'd never dreamed of tore through his insides, lighting everything on fire and destroying everything he thought he knew, before the blackness closed in, leaving him with a sense of satisfaction and comfort as he gave in to the familiar oblivion. He vaguely heard a distant scream before he slipped away.

–

Dean was no longer Dean. He didn't know what Dean was. He only knew Cas. _Cas Cas Cas_. Cas was everything. Dean was nothing.

And Cas was never leaving.

–

The thirty-second meal found the small fridge and pantry empty.

Narrowed blue eyes locked onto green, contemplating, thinking, while green sat patiently and waited.

"Would you like to go outside?"

Shaking his head, Dean replied honestly. Going outside meant leaving. Leaving meant no Cas.

Castiel smiled, beaming proudly at his Dean as he amended the previous question, "Would you like to go outside, _with me_?"

Dean nodded.

Cas grabbed the key to the shackles from behind the bedpost and removed the chains restraining Dean. Dean rubbed his wrists out of habit, like he did whenever the shackles were removed so he could go to the bathroom or shower with Cas; his wrists weren't sore or injured at all.

Dean crawled to the side of the bed where Cas stood with open arms, and latched his own arms around Cas' neck while wrapping his legs around his waist.

The brunette carried Dean to the door, unlocking it—Dean hadn't realized it was locked—and turning the knob. A blast of cool air hit Dean's naked body as Cas carried him out. He rested his chin on Cas' shoulder while he took in his new surroundings curiously.

Outside was not _outside_ , but in a dark hallway. It was only dark due to the lack of light, since the walls were painted a light cream color. The dim hallway had a few white doors sunken into the walls, and an olive green door at the end. Dean thought the green was an odd color choice, until Cas opened the door, revealing what looked like a matching olive green living room.

The living room was also dark; there were no windows to let in natural light—if it was even day time. Dean suspected there were no windows anywhere.

Cas turned on a few lights, revealing the finer details of the room as he maneuvered around tables and chairs and couches, turning into an archway that opened into the large, well-furnished chrome-and-marble kitchen.

Cas turned the light on in there as well, and Dean hid in the crook of his neck, scrunching his eyes closed as the shiny room assaulted his vision.

The blue eyed man chuckled and kissed the side of Dean's blonde head before setting him down on the marble kitchen counter.

Dean reluctantly detached himself from the comforting heat of Cas' equally bare body—he'd lost the boxers after the twenty-seventh meal—letting Cas roam around the kitchen, looking for something edible.

Setting the wooden table with their bowls of Apple Jacks and spoons, Cas picked an eager Dean back up and placed him on his lap as he sat in one of the wooden chairs. Dean scooted as close to Cas as possible, so their chests were touching, as he wrapped his arms around Cas' neck and laid his head on his shoulder. Cas rubbed soothing circles along Dean's back before dropping his hands to rest comfortably on Dean's bum.

Nuzzling into the warmth, Dean squeaked and jumped slightly when Cas gave his ass a playful squeeze.

Cas chuckled and whispered, "I love you," as he kissed along Dean's broad shoulder. The blonde snuggled further as he whispered the same endearment, meaning it wholeheartedly. _This is love, right? If this isn't love, what is?_ Dean sighed contentedly as he forgot everything but Cas; as he forgot the voice in his head, and the little warning bells he could no longer hear passed the wax.

–

Dean saw the large living room and kitchen for a few more meals, but he mostly stayed with Cas in the red room, in the shackles and chains on the bed, because that's what he preferred. That's where he was the most comfortable, and if the small pantry and fridge hadn't run out of food, Dean would've stayed contentedly in that red room with Cas forever.

Dean liked the chains. During the forty-fifth meal, Cas had asked Dean if he wanted to permanently take them off, but Dean shook his head. The shackles felt like home, and they made Cas happy. If Cas was happy, Dean was happy. If Cas was happy, he stayed.

Dean spent twenty-three more meals in the peaceful, quiet red room, making love with Cas, eating with Cas, showering with Cas, just _being_ with Cas.

Twenty-three more meals before he lost everything.

–

Sitting on Cas' lap in the red room with his mouth hanging open, Dean waited for the silver spoon to hit his tongue. It was during the sixty-eighth meal, as Cas fed and Dean ate, smiling at each other fondly, when the two heard a loud 'bang' from the direction of the living room.

Castiel froze, slowly removing the spoon from Dean's lips, placing it back in the bowl silently, slowly, as if any sudden movements would alert whatever made the noise to their presence.

After placing the plastic bowl on the floor beside the bed, Cas placed a finger to his lips, looking Dean in the eyes intently, and Dean knew he was receiving an order. Like every other order, Dean obeyed without question.

The brunette slid off the bed, placing weightless, soundless feet on the floor, padding noiselessly across the room to the ajar door. He poked his unruly head through the crack in the door to check the dim hallway, looking side to side slowly as he swept the area for intruders.

A moment passed in heavy, heart-pounding, breath-hitching silence before Castiel stuck his head back in and pushed the door closed, turning the handle so the usual resounding 'click' of the door shutting would be silenced.

Castiel raised his hands calmly in a placating gesture, trying to ease Dean's nerves, and opened his mouth to say, "It's alright. Everything's fi—"

The door to the room flung open, whacking Castiel and jabbing him in the ribs harshly with the silver knob, as a short man with shoulder-length golden hair and matching honey-colored eyes stood in the open doorway, breath heaving in his chest with an air of desperation and panic surrounding his trembling form.

As Dean appraised the new arrival with a sudden calmness, contrary to his pounding heart, he noticed the wide honey eyes falling upon him, growing wider and wider as he took in the iron shackles chaining his naked form to the silk sheets. The man's face grew pale, then a bit green, as if he would throw up the vile contents of his stomach any minute, while his eyes gleamed and sparkled with oceans of tears, being valiantly held back by short golden lashes. Horror filled every contorted feature of his slim, pale face as his shaky voice barely raised enough to whisper, "Oh-oh my g-god!"

The man gasped and shuddered, as if his entire body was visibly projecting the moment the dam in his eyes burst, breaking into crumbling pieces as the flood rushed forth and down his face.

Dean felt sorry for this man. Something about his long, not-quite-floppy hair had something tingling in the back of his head, like an itch on the large scab of his memories, something he must've locked away without realizing. But what was there to lock away? There was nothing but Cas. Cas is everything, and Cas is also _here._ Cas isn't leaving, has never left.

The small, shaking stranger turned suddenly to Castiel, gripping his golden hair with trembling, white-knuckled fingers as if he were holding his head together by the pressure, just barely keeping everything from combusting or spilling out. Just barely holding on to his sanity; his small fingers keeping himself from literally losing his mind.

"What h-have you d-done? What have you done, brother?"

The man waited with wide eyes and bated breath as if he expected an answer; as if the answer would either snatch the last thread of hope from the seam holding the small man's brains in his skull, or put everything back together again: make it all okay.

Castiel said nothing.

Apparently that was the wrong answer. A curious, whimpering, screaming, crying sort of noise bubbled out of the small man—who Dean now knew was Castiel's brother—as he erupted, losing the last shred of sanity; as something in him just _broke_.

"WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU _DONE_?!"

The scream seemed to kick Castiel, who'd been staring blankly at nothing, into action, as a fierce growling noise rumbled in his gravelly throat. He turned on his brother like a rabid wolf, nostrils flaring as he bared his white teeth. Dean wouldn't have been surprised to see elongated canines peeking past those familiar pink lips; Castiel was so _animalistic_ , his base instincts taking control as he _lunged_ for his small brother.

"Get the fuck out of here, Gabriel!"

Gabriel—Dean had learned the brother's name now—quickly evaded the tackle, although Castiel didn't seem much affected, as he got back on his feet almost immediately, growling low in his throat.

"No! NO! Y-you fucking _chained_ him! YOU RAPED HIM DIDN'T YOU?!"

Dean could vaguely tell this argument was about him, though he couldn't understand Gabriel's distress. He _liked_ being chained; he _liked_ Castiel—loved him. The tingling itch in his skull grew, and a very faint warbling sound that Dean had long forgotten sounded in his ears. The wax was crumbling.

"NO! HE IS _MINE_! GET OUT! GET OUT GET OUT GET _OUT_!"

Dean watched with detached fascination as the brothers pushed and fought and evaded and lost their minds, dancing around the comfortable red room. Dean liked the red room. One tingle burst into a tiny burning sensation. Dean scratched and remembered he didn't like red. The wax crumbled a little more, and the warbling increased.

"Oh my god! What have you _done_?! HOW COULD YOU?!"

"GO!"

Gabriel's panicked screaming reduced to quiet, tired sobbing as he fought to evade his beastly brother. Dean could see the quiet calm taking over the smaller brother, as if his body were reacting to Gabriel's thought process without him making a conscious decision; as if he were shutting down in order to cope with whatever was making his eyes shine with terror.

In a calm, soft voice, almost a whisper, Gabriel trembled, "I-I have to call the police." Dean noticed the determined glint harden the amber of Gabriel's eyes as he squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw, stating more confidently, "I'm going to call the police, Cassie. I have to."

The constant rumbling growl emitting from Castiel's chest deepened as he snarled and suddenly _erupted_ , a menacing _roar_ practically shaking the red walls with his wrath, the absolute _fury_ dripping from his pink lips and pale skin, pooling around him in a puddle of hatred and contempt for the small man in front of him.

Like a ravenous lion, Castiel _pounced,_ attempting to slam the door shut, but Gabriel was too fast, simultaneously escaping through the narrow crack and pulling his phone from his jacket pocket.

"NO! YOU ARE _NOT_ TAKING HIM AWAY, GABRIEL, HE'S _MINE_!"

The sight of Castiel scrambling out of the door, practically ripping it off its hinges, to chase his brother down finally brought Dean back from that curious awareness, forcing him into panicked action at the sight of his _everything_ leaving him alone; leaving him, like he promised he never would.

Dean's hands reached behind the metal bedpost, searching furiously for the key to his shackles. His breath came in short gasps, the white spots gathering in the corners of his eyes, and his head throbbed as he remembered he didn't like white: white spots, white rooms, stiff white sheets, wiry, cruel old men with short white beards. Finally his thumb brushed against a different, colder sort of jagged metal and he audibly sighed in relief.

Making quick, shaky work of the locks, Dean released his restraints, feeling an unusual, short-lasting burst of something powerful, and his head tingled with the knowledge that he'd never rescued himself before. But he didn't have time to indulge that power because his everything was gone and for once he was going to get it back; before Gabriel called the police—although he wasn't sure what the police would be here for. His brain tingled again, larger chunks of wax falling from his ears with each step to the door and through the dim hallway he took. He could hear the soft sound of sirens— _alarms_ , a whisper of a voice reminded him, a voice he itched to remember but couldn't quite yet—just over the sounds of roaring and screaming and shouting and banging.

And then Dean heard the familiar clanging of the cutlery drawer. He couldn't remember ever opening that in this strange place—it wasn't a house; the red room was a house, _his_ house—but the burning itch in his mind remembered the sound clearly. A chunk of the long-congealed scab fell from the scar on his memories, leaking out a dizzying burst of _Mommy. Gone. Sammy. Evil, creepy man. Firetruck. Hard to breath. Needles. Sammy. Gone gone gone. Charlie. College. Sammy. Knife. Bar. Sammy._ so fast that Dean swayed in his step, leaning against the right wall of the cream hallway, just a step before the olive green door.

Dean pushed the ajar door all the way open with a trembling hand, his steps unsure and unsteady. Dean can't remember the last time he's walked, or even stood. He had no need to with Castiel to do everything for him.

As soon as Dean adjusts to the light— _Gabriel must've turned it on_ , the voice in his head mumbles, louder than before—he's rendered immobile by the sights and sounds bombarding his fragile, collapsing mind. He leans heavily against the doorway, trying not to crumple to the floor as he sees the silver of the large knife glinting in the fluorescent lights. Castiel has a knife. _Mommy has a knife._

The scab is crumbling beneath his incessant scratching, and Dean yanks and pulls at his hair, falling to the floor with his knees to his head, rocking, rocking, rocking as if it could keep out the screaming and the banging, and Gabriel's yelling to the police about his crazy brother and Castiel's banging on the door with his fist and the knife and he's stabbing and banging and scratching and roaring and Dean is shaking and rocking and falling apart because the voice is telling him to keep scratching. _Keep_ _scratching!_ and he can't stop.

 _Sammy. Palo Alto. San Diego. Daddy's drinking magic juice. It never runs out. Mommy's golden hair. The park. Sammy's playing. Sammy's going to school. It's going to be alright he's not leaving. Castiel is sitting by the bar. Castiel is staring. Sammy's waiting. Sammy's driving. Sammy's not leaving. Castiel is not leaving. Mommy's not leaving. Mommy's gone. Gone gone gone. Leaving. Not leaving. Promise promise promise._

Castiel is still stabbing through the door; the white spots have stopped dancing: they are _swimming._ They are making Dean dizzy and nauseous and _where is Cas_? Castiel is stabbing the door.

Gabriel finished his call with the police, finished screaming with the police. Gabriel is quiet, Castiel is quiet. Castiel is waiting, crying, growling. Gabriel opens the door.

Dean sat on the floor, with curious awareness that takes over, putting a blindfold over his brain—what's left of it—so he doesn't have to _see_ , so he doesn't have to _hear_. He _can_ do these things, but he doesn't have to.

Dean is broken. Dean fell apart.

Before 'curiously aware' Dean could blink, Gabriel walked out of the closet, his quiet calmness back in place, and Castiel lunged.

The knife gleamed in Dean's curiously aware dull green eye as it sliced through the tangible particles of tense, defeated air, and Dean saw red. Dean hated red.

Everything lay still. Everything was on the floor. Everything was covered in that hateful, ugly red with a slit in its throat. Everything was not breathing, not moving. Everything was dead. _Castiel_ was everything.

Dean trembled once: a full body, _wave_ of a tremble that racked his bones, displacing every molecule, every cell in his body until he felt _wrong_ , from his pinky toe to the very last strand of sandy-blonde hair.

Dean died. Dean was gone, just as Castiel, _everything—_ and the voice in his head reminded him that Castiel was _not_ everything, but he _was_ —was gone, just as _she_ was gone, and there was no one left because everything was gone and replaced with Curious Awareness.

Curious Awareness got up from his position on the cold, hardwood floor, crawling on hands and knees to the lifeless, red body of Everything. Curious Awareness looked down at the red; Curious Awareness did not mind the red. Dean hated red, Curious Awareness did not care. If Gabriel trembled in a broken heap beside Everything, Curious Awareness did not mind it, paid it no mind, as he dipped his curious fingers into the red on Everything's neck; on _her_ neck. The mocking glint of silver shone from beneath Everything's arm, catching Curious Awareness' attention. He picked the knife up from the red floor by the tip, wondering if it would hurt. Curious Awareness did not feel it on his hand, he did not feel it in his forearm, nor his wrists. Curious awareness did not feel it on his naked thighs, or his hips. He did not feel it sinking in and out of his chest; his heart. He did not feel it sliding across the soft, easily-slit skin on his neck as he fell on top of the red and Everything, and became red himself. He simply wondered where Sammy was.

–

Gabriel Novak sat in the cold, black police questioning box, slumped in his uncomfortable metal chair tiredly, brokenly, as he was forced to tell the police how he witnessed the double suicide of his own beloved brother and the brother of the tall, heartbroken man beside him.

The single, dangling fluorescent light shined from above, bringing unwanted attention to the dark purple bags beneath his dull eyes, and the gaunt, yellow look of death his skin had maintained since entering that God-forsaken underground bunker and seeing the poor, _missing,_ Dean Winchester, chained up and _naked_ to his brother's bed.

"How did you find your brother?" The policewoman had the decency to look and sound sympathetically apologetic that she had to ask these questions of the small, broken man; _protocol_.

Gabriel ran his hands through his hair, rubbing his temples and wiping his face tiredly, as he tried to think of anything but the sniveling grown man beside him whose brother and life he'd ruined with his misjudgment and carelessness.

"I checked every home and secret bunker on the west coast before I finally found him."

"You own these places?"

"Our family does: _rich_." He said the word as if it explained everything. "Our father is a religious nut head who built a few underground bunkers in case of an emergency: mostly the apocalypse."

How did you know he'd be on the west coast?"

"Because we were vacationing there in one of our houses. I felt like we needed it, me and him, and I thought he was better. I was wrong."

The policewoman perked up a bit, as did the tall man who still had his large hand covering his no-doubt wet eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

"What do you mean 'better?'" The woman asked curiously.

Gabriel sighed, and decided to start from the beginning, rather than play difficult and make the poor woman drag it out of him one question at a time.

"I said our father is religious," Gabriel looked to her for confirmation that she remembered; she nodded encouragingly. "Well, he was. On an extreme level. He believed in the Bible verbatim, took everything _beyond_ literally. He especially liked the part in there about the 'man being the head of the house,' or some shit. He took that to mean he could do whatever the fuck he wanted: to us, to our mom, etcetera. He constantly beat her. And she put up with it, mostly so he would spare us, but God help her she put up with the constant abuse. And he did it _in front_ of us. He made us watch. So we were all a bit fucked up: Michael, Lucifer, me, Cassie, and Anna. Anna was the youngest, so she didn't understand much and as protective older brothers, we never let her see.

"We all coped with it in our own ways, getting on with our lives and pretending our dad wasn't killing our mother with every slap and punch and kick. We'd had to drag her off to the hospital more times than you can imagine.

"But Cassie, something _broke_ inside of him, with every beating. A piece of him just broke, and became _twisted._ He started imitating our father, and it scared the hell out of us the first time. We rushed him off to the therapist almost immediately, trying to see what was _wrong_ with him; because something was. He started _needing—_ not wanting—to be completely in charge: of someone or something. It started with small things, like plants and animals. But I took away all the animals after I saw him _kill_ a cat for disobeying. I—"

Gabriel paused a minute, needing to recollect himself. He heard as much as felt the shudder of what he knew to be disgust and _horror_ , rolling off of the man beside him, and Gabriel knew he must be thinking of how Dean was left alone with a _monster_ for the last of his days.

Gabriel took a deep breath and continued, "I asked him _why_ , and he just looked at me with his big blue eyes and said, 'Because he wouldn't let me feed him; he tried to do it on his own.' He was _four_. Four years old. We took him to another therapist, and they just talked with him. We all hoped, but we could see it wasn't doing a damn thing.

"Then his craving got bigger. He _needed_ to have someone rely on him completely and totally, to be fully dependent on him. So he started taking control of our sister, Anna. She was three, though, and wanted to be a big girl. We knew it was going too far when he slapped her for the first time. He hit her during breakfast because she wouldn't let him feed her, and all I could think about was the cat. The cat he'd _killed_ for the very same reason. I panicked and took him to a different therapist. They gave him some medicine to mellow him out, talked with him, the usual. But he was five. He hardly understood what they were telling him, and he couldn't see that his crazy obsession with being in control was unhealthy and _wrong._

"He started to get better as he got older. Michael had already left the house by then, and Lucifer just turned eighteen. Lucy tried to win custody of the rest of us, but our father was too powerful in the community, so he gave up and left us too. I was sixteen, and Cassie had just turned nine.

"Everything was looking up, until one day, about a month after his ninth birthday, Cassie saw a newspaper in his therapist's room. The headline was: "Dean Winchester: Finally Rescued." He looked at it, and asked to take it home. It had seven-year old Dean's picture pasted on the front. I don't know how, it was like _instinct_ , but Castiel just _knew_ Dean was perfect for him; the perfect dependent. He didn't even know Dean had a mental disorder, or what it was, he just _knew._ And _I_ knew too, after I read the article on his bed stand after tucking him in that night. I tore it up and threw it away immediately, and prayed to God he hadn't known what Separation Anxiety was.

"Unfortunately, Cassie was already hooked. He was completely obsessed with knowing more about Dean Winchester, and eventually Dean himself. He would go to school and print off pictures and newspaper clippings, and even a whole article on S.A.D. He hid it well for a couple of months—he knew I was the one who tore up the newspaper—before I saw a clipping in his backpack after school one day.

"I confronted him about it and tried to explain to him why he needed to stop, why he couldn't think about Dean anymore. He didn't take it as badly as I thought he would, and that should've been my cue that something was still off. I got rid of all the evidence, everything. At least I _thought_ I did until I found a picture of Dean in his jacket pocket two years later. He had kept it with him _everywhere_. And I knew that because the moment I turned eighteen I grabbed him and Anna and booked it. We went to live in one of our other houses, and our parents didn't bother us; they didn't care. Everything was good until I saw that, and it freaked me out. I mean, _really_ scared me. I was getting more and more worried; he was becoming more and more obsessed. He would start spacing out in the middle of the day, and then snap out of it and run up to his room. I followed him one time and peeked in to see him writing in a little journal. I waited 'til he was asleep before sneaking into his room and reading it. It was _horrifying:_ completely filled until words were crisscrossing and overlapping and just _filled_ with Dean. Everything was about Dean: about what Castiel planned to do to him, what he dreamed about, how he would get Dean to _love_ him more than anything. Some pages were just filled completely with 'Dean,' just the word, or 'Dean Novak' over and over until they were practically scribbles, overlapping and filling the page with illegible ink."

The man beside him let out a harsh, choked sob at the disturbing news.

"I completely _flipped._ I sent Anna to live with Michael and his wife, who'd been wanting a child but couldn't have one, because I couldn't take care of both of them the way I needed to.

"I sent Castiel to the therapist so often he practically lived there. I tried _everything_ ; I burned every picture and letter and newspaper, _anything_ to do with Dean Winchester, trying to get it through his mind that this behavior—this _obsession—_ was not okay.

"After a few years, Cassie finally started to get it. At least I _thought_ so. I was so relieved I became careless; I just wanted it to be _over_. He became good at hiding his obsession and I became good at pretending everything was back to normal. And although we never _had_ a normal, I pretended we did.

"When I was thirty-one going on fifty and Cassie was twenty-four, I thought we should go on a vacation; take a break from our pitiful lives. Castiel suggested one of our houses—the one in Palo Alto—and I didn't think anything of it since it was just a house, and he said he liked the view there the best. So we went.

"I should've figured it was significant, but I was too busy pretending, too busy playing 'normal' that I didn't see it coming.

"I left for a milk run one night, just getting fucking _milk_ because Cassie had _spilled_ the damn thing when I was in the middle of cooking something that required it. That probably should've been a sign, and I should've listened to my gut and the raised hairs on the back of my neck, practically _screaming_ that something was wrong. I pretended I couldn't feel it. I pretended the signs weren't there because I was so fucking _desperate_ for it to be normal, for everything to be okay.

"I came back to an empty house; the other car in the garage was gone. Sneaky bastard took the car _in_ the garage, not the one _outside_ of it, so it'd take me longer to find out he was really gone.

"I tore the house upside down after that, looking for a clue as to where he went. I found a fucking _alter_. A Dean Winchester _alter_ in the back of his closet. There was a map, there were plans, there were pictures—recent, hand-taken, candid pictures, like he'd gone out and taken them himself, which he probably _had_ —and there were so _many_ of them. Everywhere. On the floor, in the drawers, cabinets, there were a couple under the couch downstairs, in his bed. They were of Dean doing everything: cooking, talking, laughing, eating, getting undressed, sleeping—God, I think he broke into his fucking _house_ for a couple of those— _showering_ , and the list goes on. I couldn't do anything but sit, in a pile of Dean Winchester, completely overwhelmed, just staring into space. Then I cried. God, I cried for _hours_ , when I should've been _looking_! I probably could've found him before any of this got out of hand! But I was an idiot, and I couldn't handle my pretend world coming to a crash landing all around me."

Gabriel took a deep, shuddering breath, vainly wiping a few tears that had already been steadily pouring down his face for a while. He knew there were more to come, but it helped regain a semblance of picking up the pieces, of putting himself back together, if only to get through the rest of the story. He glanced over to see the still-shaking form of the man, and he felt his heart break, weighed down by overwhelming guilt. He collected himself as best he could—which was only on the surface, in his facial features—and pushed through, telling his story to the devastated man whose life he ruined, and the teary-eyed cop who was hanging off the edge of her seat in weary anticipation.

"Eventually I picked myself up enough to think up a reasonable plan of action. I drove down to the address Cassie had written down, but nobody was there. Then I remembered a picture of Dean in front of a bar, so I looked it up and drove down there. Neither of them were there either, but I stopped to ask the bartender if he'd seen either. He said they left together—that Castiel had _carried_ an _unconscious_ Dean Winchester out of the bar, not half an hour before I arrived.

"I almost felt like giving up, but the guilt pushed me on. It was _my_ fault. _I'm_ the one who ignored the signs, who let my brother carry on with his obsession, who let my brother trick me into leaving, who kept _pretending_ everything was alright, even when _nothing_ was. So I kept thinking, and I kept driving.

"I knew he wouldn't have gone far, since Dean wouldn't be unconscious forever, but I knew he'd go far enough. I looked up all the addresses for our houses, checking every single one in the state; there were only four in California. It took me a month and a half to realize we had _underground bunkers_ , stocked with enough food to last two lifetimes _each_. Then I remembered there was one in Virginia, one in Kansas, and one in Oregon, just across the border, in the middle of the mountains.

"I stopped in a diner on the way to Oregon, and the TV was tuned into the local news. Dean's face flashed up on screen, saying he'd been missing for as long as I'd been searching, and I just fell off the barstool and cried.

"I drove to the bunker as fast as I could, and the closer I got, the more the hair raised on the back of my neck, and the pain increased in my gut. I knew I was going to find something I didn't like, and this time, I didn't ignore the signs and pretend they weren't there. I wouldn't make that mistake again.

"When I got to the hidden entrance, I saw Castiel's car, the one from the garage, hastily hidden beneath a few large branches. My heart dropped to my stomach, because I knew I had found him; I knew I had found Dean. I opened the door and entered quietly, but I'd never been in the damn thing, so I didn't know where I was going. There were no windows, and no lights were on, it was almost pitch black. I bumped into a damn table, and I knew that was the end of the surprise visit, because Cassie would've heard, no doubt, and I knew he would _flip_. Completely lose his shit. Because he'd done it before, and with much less. He'd lost it when I'd thrown away his newspaper clippings the first time. He knew I was there to take the real thing away, so I knew that wasn't going to go over well. I couldn't have prepared myself for the reality of it though.

Gabriel paused, needing to, because the next and _last_ part was the worst. Words could not do what he saw justice.

"D-Dean was—"he shuddered, clenching his eyes shut as if he could block the memory, as if he could un-see everything. "Dean was n- _naked_ and fucking c-chained to the bed. W-with like, _actual_ prison ch-cha-ains." Gabriel stuttered, sucking in hiccuping breaths as he tried to force himself through this, tried to ignore the heart-wrenching sob that erupted from Dean's brother beside him, as he collapsed against the the table with the news. Gabriel couldn't help the sobs escaping his own lips as he listened to and _felt_ the man beside him _break_. He thought he was broken before, but Gabriel could obviously see that _now_ he was broken; now he was shattered, into tiny pieces that may never come back together again. He might've just made his third kill.

Gabriel wiped the tears from his eyes, if only by habit now, as he began again, "He was just _sitting_ there, looking like he didn't understand why I was there; why I was upset. I broke. I just broke and started sobbing and asking _why_. And Cassie just stood there, staring at me blankly until I _screamed_. Then he growled— _growled_ like a fucking _animal_ —at me and we started fighting. I told him I was gonna call the cops, said I _had_ to. Because I _did._ And he _roared_. He roared and yelled and I ran and hid in a closet while I screamed at the police. He was stabbing the door with a knife, banging and growling and roaring. He barely ever said actual _words_ , he just _growled_! I felt like I had lost: lost my brother, lost my _world_. Everything was broken. When I was done talking to the police, I just walked out. I lost all will. I felt like it was my fault, all of it, so if Cassie wanted to bring that knife down on me, I'd gladly let him.

"But he didn't. That stupid, _stupid_ bastard didn't." Gabriel's voice was a shaky whisper by now, as he tried to speak through the hand wrapped tight around his throat and chest, making it hard to breathe and harder to speak. The salty tears seeped into his open mouth, his nose long since rendered unsuitable for breathing.

"H-he s-s-sli-sli—" Gabriel couldn't finish. His breathing was so ragged he was nearly hyperventilating. Large, strong arms suddenly wrapped around him and he was pulled into the tall man's chest. As soon as he realized what was happening he broke down completely. He sobbed and sobbed, unable to stem the flood of tears as they poured from his eyes, soaking a large, wet spot into the man's coat, as they both shook with shared sobs of heart-breaking _pain_ , pain that couldn't be defined or described—pain that had to be _felt,_ as one feels their chest rip itself open, skin cell by skin cell.

After ten minutes, Gabriel was subdued enough to finish the tragedy.

With a harsh, trembling sigh, Gabriel continued, still sitting in the man's lap, clutching his coat with shaky fingers, "He k-killed himself instead of me, with the knife. H-he c-cut his th-throat. I looked over and Dean was there, curled up on the floor, _watching_. I saw something in his eyes just, _die._ He died the moment the knife touched Cassie's neck.

"H-he crawled over, and he just looked at the blood with dead eyes. And then he looked at me. He looked like he was seeing for the first time, seeing anything, seeing _everything._ He looked so innocent, and just _curious_. Then he touched the blood, with that innocent look, just swirling it; _playing_ with it. Then h-he took the kn-knife."

Gabriel clutched the man's coat tighter, anticipating the reaction he knew would come.

"He took it, and cut his hand. He didn't flinch, didn't _react_ , just looked curious, like he wondered what it felt like: and he didn't feel anything. He cut up his a-arm, and th-then his thigh, and h-he st-st-sta-abbed h-himself, i-in the-the c-chest. Then h-he s-s-sli-sli—"

And again, Gabriel couldn't finish; couldn't put into words what had occurred; couldn't make it _real_. Only this time, he wasn't the only one breaking, sobbing and clutching onto someone for dear life. This time, it was his turn to hold, to provide something solid to grab onto, because lord knows he couldn't provide comfort.

The cop was almost as much in tears as the two men in front of her were. She put her hand up as if to say _no more_ when Gabriel finally poked his head up from its place on the other man's shoulder. She took her blank witness' statement and threw it in the trash as she left, _protocol_ be damned.

Gabriel spent the majority of the rest of the night in the man—who he learned was Sam Winchester—'s arms, as they held onto each other, as if the other was the only thing tethering them down, keeping them from floating off and never coming back; never recovering.

–

Sam and Gabriel bonded and became tentative friends—and each other's _only_ friend, after altering their past lives to start fresh—keeping in touch and just keeping each other together. The bond they formed was strong, and they danced around each other for two years before Sam finally asked Gabriel out.

Seven years later found them happily married with two adopted children: a four year old boy with blonde hair and blue eyes named, Castiel Bradbury Winchester, and a two year old black-haired, green-eyed boy named Dean Charles "Charlie" Winchester.

The End


End file.
